


Our Own Device

by evilgiraff



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilgiraff/pseuds/evilgiraff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Author: Anonymous<br/>Songspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles<br/>Prompter: pervyunitwins<br/>Title: Our Own Device<br/>Prompt Number: 210<br/>Pairing(s): Harry/Draco<br/>Summary: Reeling from a recent breakup, Harry takes to the wheel. When night falls, he needs somewhere to stay, and where better than the Hotel California?<br/>Rating: NC17<br/>Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.<br/>Warning(s): Creepy, slightly gory, not all that fluffy.<br/>Epilogue compliant? No<br/>Word Count: 3500<br/>Author's Notes: Thank you, dear prompter, for asking for Hotel California! I have loved this song all my life, and I hope I've done it justice. It is a bit darker than your average Smoochfic, but I think is true to the song. I hope you like it! Thanks as ever to my darling beta, O, who is invaluable and totally awesome. Special thanks to the mods – sorry for taking such a long time getting this sorted! Oh, and there really is a village on the Norfolk coast called California. Any similarity in this fic to that place is entirely coincidental!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Own Device

The glare of oncoming headlights makes Harry blink.  He's been behind the wheel for several hours, Essex and Suffolk rolling by, easing into Norfolk many miles ago.  If he'd borrowed Hagrid's bike rather than Arthur's old Ford Anglia it would doubtless have taken a fraction of the time, but then the driving force had been to leave London rather than arrive anywhere in particular.  Months of his boyfriend Jasper's barbed comments about Harry's lack of commitment had taken their toll, and Harry had finally snapped.  Jasper is his ex-boyfriend now, Harry supposes.  The argument had been short, hot, and painful, and almost as soon as he'd shown Jasper the door Harry had been desperate to get out himself.  He'd Apparated to the Burrow, stuck a note on the shed door to let Arthur know where the car had gone, and driven off in the Anglia.

 

That had been just after lunch, but now the long summer twilight is dwindling into true darkness.  The smell of iodine drifts through the open window, and Harry can taste sea salt on his lips.  Another car appears in the distance, lights rapidly growing unbearably bright until it swishes past, leaving bright spots in Harry's vision and a roaring in his ears.  He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his back suddenly protesting at his immobility.  The road bends gently to the left, and a friendlier light comes into view some way ahead.  The spots in his eyes and his mounting fatigue combine until the glimmer twinkles and shimmers.  As he approaches, the purpose of the light becomes clear, as a sign declaring “HOTEL” is illuminated underneath.  It seems like a good idea, Harry thinks.  He's too dozy to Apparate home right now even if he really wanted to, and in any case he ought not to abandon the car.  When he pulls into the car park and turns off the engine, the quiet is absolute.

 

The hotel itself is a heavy brick-and-flint structure, low and wide with a thatched roof in poor repair.  It could be beautiful in daylight, Harry thinks, but with the darkness deepening all around him, the looming structure is rather more menacing, the elderly thatch almost oozing down off the roof towards him.  He ducks under the door lintel rather more than necessary, and steps inside.

 

The lobby is small and gloomy, a lamp on the reception desk doing more to highlight the dinginess than illuminate the space.  An elderly gentleman is seated behind the desk, his dark eyes sunken and unblinking.  On catching sight of Harry, he rises slowly to his feet, the creaking of his joints clearly audible.

 

“Welcome to the Hotel California,” he says, his voice sounding as unused as his knees.  He waits, silently, a stillness settling over him.

 

“Er, can I have a room, please?” asks Harry, not at all sure if it's a good idea.  The man makes no reply, but simply retrieves a key from a hook on the wall behind the desk, lights a stump of candle, then shuffles into a dim corridor.  The candlestick immediately puts Harry in mind of Wee Willie Winkie – a rhyme he's always found faintly unsettling – though the elderly man could hardly be running through the town, never mind up and down stairs.  The candlelight is moving steadily away, however, and Harry gives his head a shake before hurrying to catch up.  He follows after the man, the walls close on either side.  After passing four heavy-looking doors with decorated keyholes, the man stops at the fifth, and pushes the key into the lock.  This one has a harpy carved into the door, her talons clamped over the keyhole.  The door opens without a sound, and Harry steps through into the room beyond.  He turns to thank the man, but despite his slowness there is now no sign of him, not even a glimmer from the guttering candle.

 

Frowning, Harry closes the door, then looks around at his new surroundings.  The room has a small fireplace with a reluctant fire burning, the flickering light casting shadows that dance over crooked walls.  Harry removes one candle from a candelabra sitting on a low table beside the bed, and lights it at the fireplace.  Even after he's lit all six candles, the room is still quite dark.  He wanders around the room, tries to look out of the window only to see his own reflection.  There is a cramped bathroom – the door to which has another harpy hovering over the handle – including a sink with a slowly dripping tap and an immense bath.  The bed, at least, is soft and inviting.  He kicks off his shoes and strips down to his underwear, then crawls under the many blankets.  The cold mattress takes his breath away at first, curling him into a ball while he waits for warmth to spread.  He stares at the fire, as if looking at the flames will warm him up more quickly, the dancing tongues of fire licking gently over the meagre fuel.

 

Harry's not sure what jerks him awake.  He doesn't recall drifting off, but he must have slept for a few hours.  The room is now pitch black aside from the few embers in the grate.  The candles are gone, a puddle of wax over the table all that remains.  He lies very still, breathing as quietly as he can while he listens, straining to hear any tiny sound.  A faint hint of voices drifts through the air, and he clambers out of the bed, grabs at his clothes, swearing under his breath as the legs of his jeans tangle as he hurries to get dressed.  He's still wrestling his arms into his wrinkled t-shirt as he opens the door, scraping his knuckles on the harpy's talons.  The voices are louder now, repeating the same greeting that the doorman had given him.  He rushes down the corridor, following the sound around a long bend, sure that he'll catch sight of the speakers at any moment.  Why exactly it's so important to find out the source of the voices, Harry's not sure.  Perhaps it's the feeling of isolation in the hotel, perhaps it's just because it's dark and he's alone.  And these people are welcoming visitors, presumably, so looking for them is surely not so strange.

 

The corridor finally straightens out, and Harry stops dead.  He can see down the length of the corridor now, all twenty feet or so, to where it stops abruptly with a small window in the end wall.  There are no doors, no way for anyone to have left without either going past Harry or squeezing through the – closed – window.

 

He edges over to the window, and peers out.  The window opens over a courtyard that houses a few trees and a bench or two.  The voices have faded away, and he can't see anyone in the courtyard that might have been the source.  As his eyes adjust to the darkness outside, Harry notices a faint glow from the far side of the courtyard.  There's a flickering, unsteady quality to it that reminds him of sparklers and bonfires.  But November is months away, and the hotel seems an unlikely place for a celebration.  All the same, where there's fire there's often other people, and the thought of going back to his gloomy little room without at least seeing another living soul is distinctly unappealing.

 

Finding the way into the courtyard proves to be quite simple.  Retracing his steps, Harry discovers a narrower corridor branching off the first, and a small door opens out into the courtyard from there.  He doesn't have time to wonder why he didn't notice the second corridor when he was following the voices, as once outside, his attention is immediately grabbed by gentle music and the sweet smell of woodsmoke.  The flickering is indeed a bonfire, alarmingly close to the building – especially given the thatched roof – but the crowd of people dancing beside the fire are apparently unconcerned.  In fact, they all appear so engrossed in their movements that it seems entirely possible they've not noticed the fire at all.

 

Approaching the group, the lilting melody grows louder, until Harry catches sight of an elderly woman sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall and playing a guitar.  She meets Harry's gaze, and gives him a slow and toothless grin with no joy in it.  Sweat pricks along his spine and he shivers despite the combined heat of the bonfire and the heavy stickiness of the still summer night.

 

The dancers are almost all men.  Tall, short, fat, thin, and every race imaginable, they are varied in appearance but yet all are beautiful in their movements.  There's just one woman.  She's bewitching, every sweep of hand or foot impossible to look away from.  Bangles jingle on her arms, tiny bells are threaded into her hair, and glimmering firelight is reflected from every inch of sweat-damp skin.  Harry's feet carry him toward her, tottering over cobbles and tripping over tree roots.  He's almost reached her when instead of seamlessly joining the dance, he stumbles, staggers, and fetches up  against one of the men instead.  With his milk-white skin and flaxen hair, this man is both arresting and oddly familiar.

 

The surprise of the physical contact and then the recognition jars Harry back to himself.  “Malfoy?” he asks.  “Is that you?”

 

It has been years since the Death Eater trials where Harry was a witness so many times, but only once for the defence, for Malfoy, for the frightened boy in over his head.  They've not met since, although every Christmas Harry receives an elegant card from Narcissa.  For the first year or so after his acquittal, Malfoy's movements had been reported in the Daily Prophet, along with a caustic commentary on everything from his dress to his dining habits.  The novelty had worn off eventually, though, with Malfoy's repeated failure to do anything more sinister than buy groceries.

 

Malfoy – and Harry is sure it is Draco Malfoy – says nothing.  The collision barely seems to have registered with him, and he simply continues dancing.  A lack of response from Malfoy – even the post-war, Mr Nice Guy, reformed Malfoy – is unsettling enough that Harry pushes forward into Malfoy's space a second time.  For a moment they are pressed together from shoulder to hip, Malfoy's hands drifting down Harry's back, holding him close.  It seems that the enforced stillness is what breaks through to Malfoy, the way it becomes impossible to continue the gentle swaying movements when holding on to a stubbornly immobile Harry.

 

“Potter?” Malfoy frowns, although he doesn't let go.  If anything, he holds Harry a little more firmly.

 

Harry nods.  “Malfoy, what is this place?  It's just weird.  Why are you here?”

 

Malfoy shows no sign of having heard the question.  “Potter,” he repeats, a smile spreading across his face, his voice warm, friendly, and not a little incredulous.  “Harry Potter.”

 

“Yes.  Look, Malfoy, there's something wrong with this place, I keep hearing voices, and–  Malfoy, are you even listening?”

 

“I missed you,” whispers Malfoy.  There's no time for Harry to respond, Malfoy is pulling him close once more, and then Malfoy is everywhere, hands roaming up his back and across his shoulders, fingertips stroking behind his ear and down to his throat.  Malfoy's lips are warm and soft on Harry's, and it feels so natural, so easy.

 

“What?”  Harry wants to ask more questions, to find out what Malfoy means, to explain that he has a boyfriend and so can't possibly get caught up in Malfoy, and then he remembers Jasper's angry expression as he walked away from Harry's front door for the last time.  Suddenly, getting caught up in Malfoy seems like exactly the right thing to do.

 

Harry pushes against Malfoy, splaying his hands over Malfoy's back and kissing him with a fervour that takes them both by surprise.  Malfoy rubs his thumbs over Harry's hipbones, eliciting a sudden tightness in his groin and a prickle down his spine that has nothing to do with the oddness of their surroundings.  All that matters is finding somewhere private, preferably with a warm bed.

 

“Room,” gasps Malfoy.  “Where's your room?”

 

Harry can't remember the way back to his room, but he'll be damned if he stops now.  He's wearing all the belongings he brought into the hotel, and the memory of the snarling harpies on the doors makes looking for the right room less than appealing.  “This way,” he says, pulling Malfoy towards the nearest door.  They enter another narrow corridor, and Harry pushes at the first door he finds.  This one has no harpies, but instead a squid's arms wrap around the doorhandle, cool, damp and softly yielding to the pressure of Harry's fingers.  The room is much more welcoming than Harry's own room had been, with a brighter fire and the lit candles of several candelabra providing a soft light that shines from Malfoy's hair, making the urge to rake his fingers through it almost irresistible.

 

He's about to follow through on that urge, when Malfoy moves.  Fingertips against Harry's collarbone guide him backwards until his legs hit the bed and Harry sits down.  Malfoy takes a step back, a soft and gentle smile spreading over his face, and slowly begins to unbutton his shirt.  Swaying slightly, the steadily uncovered skin goes into and out of sight, only offering tantalising glimpses until Malfoy shrugs out of the shirt and his whole chest is bared.  Harry reaches out, pulls Malfoy to him, and kisses him, sucking and licking at nipples, trailing fingertips across ribs and down over a soft belly dusted with golden hair.  Malfoy groans, and his fingers clench in Harry's hair.  It takes both forever and no time at all for the rest of their clothes to go the same way as Malfoy's shirt, littering the floor with careless abandon.

 

Malfoy pushes Harry back on the bed once more, climbing up and over him, crowding him with kisses and hot breaths, the tickling of his hair on Harry's neck and the too-brief moments of contact between their cocks that have Harry arching up off the bed.  As he does so, he realises the ceiling is mirrored, and he can see Malfoy's body over his own, as beautiful as if Michelangelo himself had painted it.  It's unbearable, this ache, with relief so close and yet denied.  A whimper escapes Harry's throat, and Malfoy chuckles.  Malfoy kneels up, clambers over Harry's legs and turns around – with none of the clumsiness that Harry's knows would have been painfully obvious had he tried the same manoeuvre – and settles down on his side, fingers stroking Harry's balls and squeezing his cock before slowly licking the tip.

 

Harry gasps, his whole body jumps, and he reaches out to Malfoy, desperate to reciprocate.  They push and lick and squeeze and suck for an eternity, the air growing thick and heavy around them.  At last Malfoy starts to quiver, his movements growing more erratic, and Harry's eyes pop open, watching as they surge together, a rosiness spreading through Malfoy's skin until a hot flood rushes into Harry's mouth.  Malfoy groans, and his eyes meet Harry's in the mirror, a wickedness in them precipitating Harry's own tumble into orgasm, hot and hard and desperate.

 

As they come down, quiet settling around them and lucidity returning, Harry finds himself wanting to avoid talking, preferring not to speak of his recent break-up as the reason that he's in the hotel.  Although the subject is considerably less painful now than it had been the previous day, he'd rather not have to tell Malfoy.  He tries not to wonder if falling into bed with Malfoy was all about being angry and hurt and on the rebound, or if it had something deeper about it.  He casts about for something else to focus on, gaze roving over the rumpled sheets and across the room until his eye lights upon a small table holding an ice bucket and two glasses.

 

“What's this?” he murmurs, disentangling himself from Malfoy and swinging off the bed.  He picks up the bottle standing in the bucket, and turns back to the bed.

 

“Champagne?” asks Malfoy, his eyes dancing.  “Aren't you the romantic sort.”

 

“Apparently so,” Harry muses, opening the bottle and pouring the wine.  It's a deep pink, almost red, and he hands a glass to Malfoy with a raised eyebrow.  “This isn't my room, you know.”

 

“How long have you been staying here?” Malfoy asks, sipping the wine.

 

“This is my first night.  I'll be on my way in the morning, I need to get the car back.”

 

“Oh, you'll never leave,” Malfoy says, draining his glass and leaning back on his elbows.  “Why would you?”

 

“Why would I stay?”  Harry retorts.  “This place is dark and dingy, and more than a little strange.  And as I just said, I need to get the car back to Arthur.”

 

Malfoy raises an eyebrow.  “If it's that unappealing, why did you stop in the first place?  Why haven't you already left?  And what car, anyway?  I've never seen a car here.”

 

“I'll show you.”  Harry pulls his clothes on, trying not to think about Malfoy's questions, focussing instead on the one practical thing he can do.  He taps his foot impatiently as Malfoy dresses himself impeccably once more, then strides off down the corridor.

 

The passageway is unfamiliar, he recognises none of the symbols on the doors, and Harry's brows knit as he walks briskly to the end.  He turns a corner, and shrieks with surprise.  A pair of double doors is open ahead of him.  In the room beyond a group of people are seated around a laden banquet table, a huge boar – complete with apple in its mouth – taking centre stage.  Each person is taking it in turns to cut a piece of meat, each leaving their carving knife in the boar once done.  Harry's mouth waters as the scent of roast pork drifts down the corridor, inviting him to join the gathering.  Although it must be a celebration – the only possible justification for such obscene excess, in Harry's opinion – there's a curious absence of party atmosphere.  The people are dressed immaculately in opulent fabrics, but there is no conversation.  In fact, it's so quiet that Harry can hear the faint juicy squeak as the next knife pares away a slice of meat, and he shudders.  He likes a roast dinner, but this seems too intimate, as if the diners have some kind of personal relationship – or even kinship – with the boar.

 

As Harry watches, the boar's tiny eyes open, and its lips peel back from long, sharp teeth.  The apple rolls across the table and bounces on to the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind it.  The boar heaves itself to its feet, light glinting from the steel knives buried in its side, and Harry starts to run.  The double doors begin to close ahead of him, though through the gap he can see the boar's teeth sink into a woman's thigh, and then a man's throat.  Screaming fills the air for a split second, and the doors slam shut, leaving a deafening silence.  Harry hammers on the door, rattles the handle, but to no avail.  He reluctantly releases the door handle, pricking his fingers on the hide of a carved pig as he does so.

 

“What the hell was that?” he wonders, turning to Malfoy.

 

Malfoy isn't there.  He isn't in the corridor, or in the one that Harry thinks he'd turned on to it from, and sweat breaks down his spine as his stomach drops.  He starts to run, trying to find his way back – even the gloomy room with the harpies that he'd first slept in would be a welcome sight, but nothing he sees is familiar.

 

He runs until his breath is harsh in his lungs and sweat is streaming down his body, visions of teeth and blood fighting with memories of Malfoy gasping in pleasure, swirling together in a kaleidoscope of images that is as nauseating as it is frightening.  Eventually he slows to a walk, finds a door to the outdoors and a cool bench under trees.  He sits until his breathing calms, until his heart steadies, though his hands refuse to stop shaking, thoughts of Malfoy coming to harm preventing true relaxation.

 

Slowly he becomes aware of music; a slow, gentle, enticing melody.  He weaves between the trees, heads towards the flickering of firelight ahead.  A small group of people are dancing, at once separately and together, the music playing them back and forth.  Harry is swept up with them, briefly circling a beautiful woman dripping in jewellery before spinning off alone.  Something about the jewelled woman seems familiar; although he can't place who she is, every time he looks at her there's a maddening itch in his mind, behind his eyes.

 

Confused and distracted, he trips over a tree root and collides with another dancer.  Warm hands catch his, steadying him, then slip down to his waist.  Their owner chuckles, hair tickling Harry's face as kisses pepper his jaw.  “Harry Potter,” murmurs Malfoy.  “I've missed you.”

 

“Malfoy,” Harry breathes, residual tension draining away, the exhilaration of kissing Malfoy leaving him light-headed and wobbly.  “How long has it been?”

  
“Forever, I think,” Malfoy says, pulling Harry close.  “But who's counting?  We have all the time in the world.”

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